Aftermath: For a Single Moment
by Purple Eyed Cat
Summary: In the aftermath of a terrible event, there is always hope. Spoilers for the Season 3 finale. One-shot. Caskett.


**A/N: After reeling from that cliffhanger of a finale, I finally got my thoughts in order and produced this little tale, the immediate aftermath of Beckett being injured, and the hope that Castle finds. Enjoy!**

**Summary: In the aftermath of such a terrible event, there is always hope. One-shot. Complete. Caskett. **

**Disclaimer: None of this is mine. If it was, Beckett wouldn't have been shot. **

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><p>Aftermath: For a Single Moment<p>

**DETECTIVE SHOT AT CAPTAIN'S FUNERAL, NYPD SHOCKED**

_Detective Katherine Beckett, a well-known member of NYPD's 12__th__ precinct, was shot and injured by an unknown gunman two days ago while giving a speech at the funeral of the precinct's fallen hero, Capitan Roy Montgomery. Capitan Montgomery had been shot and fatally wounded four days before after successfully foiling a gang operation. Detective Beckett was rushed to the hospital for treatment of her gunshot wound. No details have yet been released as to her condition. Although the other officers attending the funeral searched for the gunman, no suspect was found. Detective Beckett is well-known in the city as the inspiration for Richard Castle's best-selling new series, _Nikki Heat_. The relationship between the two has been the subject of much speculation…_

_Thwap_.

Richard Castle tossed aside the most recent newspaper and buried his head in his hands, ignoring the way the headline continued to glare up at him, a dark and heavy reminder of the nightmare he was currently enmeshed in. For all that he was a writer, and normally sought solace in the written word, the inky type that so coldly described what he had witnessed and participated in did not make the horror any less surreal.

The uncomfortable plastic of the waiting room chair squeaked under him as he shifted his weight, his fingers buried in his hair, his warm palms pressed against his eyelids, trying to block out the memories that brief paragraph had evoked.

He had been in this waiting room for the past two days, ever since he had climbed into the ambulance, still partially cradling Kate Beckett in his arms. The ride had passed in a blur—Rick had been dimly aware of the paramedics working around him, as he had refused to move. He remembered all too clearly the blood that had seeped from her abdomen—how badly was she shot?—and he remembered focusing on her face, waiting and willing her to open her eyes, his dread growing as one moment passed into the next, and she did not wake.

Even after that taut ride to the hospital, he had been evicted from her presence, and made to sit in this room, waiting along with everyone else for the doctor to give the verdict. Esposito, Lanie, and Ryan had come to see her, all wearing the same expression of worry and concern, but Beckett had been unresponsive. One by one, they each waited for a few hours, and then left.

Now there were only three.

Jim Beckett sat beside his daughter's hospital room door, a silent sentry waiting for Kate to wake again. She had briefly woken the day before, but after inquiring about and ascertaining that everyone was alive, that she was the only one who had been injured, Kate had slipped back into that odd state of unconsciousness, somewhere between sleep and comatose, her mind retreating as her body attempted to heal.

Jim Beckett looked haggard, and that state of his rumpled clothes revealed that he had not left the hospital since he had gotten word of his daughter's admittance. Rick glanced away as their eyes met—he had promised the man that he would protect Kate, and he had failed to do that.

He should have seen the sniper sooner, should have realized what it was, should have been quicker, should have pulled Kate out of the way the second he realized she was in danger—

"Richard, stop it."

The calm chastisement came from his left, and Rick lifted his head, glancing over at his mother. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed, but she was washed and properly dressed, unlike the two men beside her. After keeping vigil with Alexis at her side, she had taken the girl home at Rick's gentle suggestion, leaving her granddaughter in Ashley's arms and freshening up before returning to her son's side.

Martha's lips quirked up in the shadow of a smile, and she took her son's hand, attempting to give him whatever comfort she could. She knew that the only comfort he would truly receive would be from the woman who currently lay in a hospital bed, but she had to try.

"I know you," she chided. "You're telling yourself that you should have done, that you could have prevented it from happening. There was nothing you could have done, Rick, aside from foreseeing it. We both know you did what you could."

Richard Castle shook his head, his blue eyes shadowed with guilt. "I saw that sniper's glint off the tombstones," he said hoarsely. "I should have moved then, pulled her down, instead of trying to figure out what it was."

At this, Jim Beckett's head came up, and he fixed Rick with a stern glare. "Quit beating yourself up," he snapped. At the Rodgers' startled glances in his direction, he softened, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, gazing with genuine warmth at the tortured author.

"Rick," he said softly, "you saved my Katie. If you hadn't tackled her, from what I heard, she could have suffered worse injuries, or even died. I lost my Johanna, and I couldn't…" the man trailed off as his voice grew hoarse, swiping at his eyes as memories of his wife overwhelmed him. "If I had lost Katie, I don't know what I would have done…" his eyes grew dark for a moment with nightmares of an alternate reality. His gaze meant Rick's, and this time, the younger man did not look away.

"Thank you," Jim Beckett said quietly. "You protected my daughter to the best of your ability. That's all I asked."

Rick met the older man's gaze and offered a small smile that quickly melted away. Despite Jim's quiet gratitude, he knew that his fears would not be assuaged until he was forgiven by Kate.

"You should change, darling." Martha's gentle suggestion was not the first she had offered over the last forty-eight hours, but Rick had yet to heed them. Perhaps it was a little macabre, sitting outside Kate's room still wearing the blood-stained dark suit that had been meant for a funeral. It was if he was already in mourning…

_No_. That would not happen. Shaking his head, Rick offered his mother a weak smile, but did not move. He would not admit it to her, and barely to himself, but the reason he did not change was because it was in this suit that he had held Kate close, felt her heart beat, heard her breathing. Perhaps it superstitious and foolish, but he did not want to lose the last items he had that contained traces of her.

Footsteps rapidly approaching drew the trio's attention, and Rick looked up to see Josh Davidson striding towards them, his face taut with the worry that was mirrored on their expressions.

From his disheveled appearance, it was clear he had just gotten off a plane. Rick attempted to remember where in Africa Kate had said Josh was traveling, but found that he could not and did not really care. Dropping his bag beside an empty chair, Josh strode over to Jim Beckett, who stood to meet him.

"Mr. Beckett," he said quietly, "thank you for calling me." He glanced past his girlfriend's father towards the door, his eyes flickering with hope. "How is she?"

"Sleeping," Jim replied, the worry lines around his eyes creasing his skin. The anxiety over his daughter had aged him, but he still stood tall as he faced his daughter's suitor.

"Can I see her?" Josh asked quietly, and Jim nodded. Josh opened the door quietly and entered, closing it with a soft _click _behind him. Rick straightened, his eyes fixed on the door. He knew that a patient's information was rarely given out to a significant other—it was doubtful Josh would have even known Kate was injured unless Jim notified him of her condition and the circumstances.

Five minutes passed slowly, marked only by the ticking of the clock. Rick shifted in his seat again, the plastic chair hard and uncomfortable after two days of near-constant sitting.

Josh exited moments later, and found himself faced with three expectant pairs of eyes. Raking a hand through his dark hair, he could not conceal his disappointment as he shook his head. "No response," he admitted, his eyes dark with regret. "I was hoping she would wake up."

"She can still hear us," Jim told him, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Kate knows you were there."

"If she wakes up and I'm not here, will you tell her I love her?"

Jim Beckett blinked, and then nodded. "Of course. But I think the words would sound better coming from you."

His weak attempt at humor went unnoticed, but Martha Rodgers did not miss the way her son flinched at the cardiac surgeon's words. He had seen the way Josh had delicately uttered the words, as if they were new to him where Kate was concerned. Martha couldn't help but wonder if her son had made the same declaration to Kate at some point after her injury. His fascination with the strong detective had been apparent since the third case he had returned from, full of creativity and ready to write again.

Over the last few years, Martha had quietly watched that fascination turn to respect, respect to camaraderie, camaraderie to devotion, and now, lately, that devotion had shown itself to be love. Martha knew that she was not mistaking her son's feelings for infatuation—she had given him what counsel she could regarding Beckett, and she knew her son's feelings for the detective had become more than lust.

Richard Castle was in love with Kate Beckett.

Josh picked up his bag, and grimaced with the realization that he had to leave. "I'm sorry," he murmured, glancing at Jim, "but I need to get back to the hospital. I was supposed to go there first, but I need to see Kate. Will you give her my message?"

Seeing the apprehension in Josh's eyes, Jim nodded, attempting offer a kindly smile. "I will."

As Josh disappeared down the hallway, Jim Beckett turned to Rick. "Would you like to see her?"

Rick glanced up, nearly refusing. In the last two days as he had kept vigil in this room, he had refused to enter Kate's room, his own terror holding him immobile. He wasn't sure what he would see beyond that door, and he wasn't sure if he wanted his memory of Kate, strong, sure, beautiful Kate, to be replaced by the small silhouette of a woman on a pristine bed, surrounded by machines.

Kate's father clearly read some of the fear in the young author's eyes, for he nodded towards Kate's door, his expression resolute. "Go see her. She needs to hear your voice."

Slowly, Rick forced himself towards the imposing door, reaching out to grip the cold handle, wondering when his nightmare had shifted from the terror of Kate being shot to facing her in the aftermath of her injury.

The door creaked as he opened it, and Rick stepped over the threshold, closely the door gently behind him. Facing the wood for a moment, he took a fortifying breath, steeling himself for what he might find in the bed behind him.

The gentle _beep-beep-beep_ of the heart monitor and the quiet hum of the other machines were the only noises that greeted him as he turned around. His footsteps seemed too loud in the relative silence of the room as he walked over to the chair sitting at her bedside and sank down into it.

Lifting his gaze, Richard Castle set eyes on Kate Beckett for the first time in two days.

She seemed so small and pale, lying there, surrounded by tubes and IVs and other medical equipment meant to keep her alive. Her brown hair was spread against her pillow, having been pulled from the formal bun two days before by the nurses when they took her into surgery. Her hair curled against her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, and Rick found himself reaching out to brush it away, marveling at the silkiness of it against his fingertips—as he did every time he found a way to touch her—and breathing a inward sigh of relief that her skin was warm against the pads of his fingers, most of his fears relieved.

Her eyes still remained closed, but Rick was comforted by the steady rise and fall of her chest. Beneath the snowy hospital sheets, the man could discern the bandages that wrapped around her waist, covering her injury.

Closing his eyes against the vivid images conjured up by the sight of those bandages—would he ever be rid of them?—Rick focused instead on Kate's face. Reaching out to take her hand, Rick slid his fingers under hers, holding her hand loosely, allowing her to respond, if she so chose. Perhaps such a hope of response was foolish, but it was hope Rick harbored anyway.

"Kate," he called to her gently, "Kate, I'm here."

Her fingers remained limp, but the _beep _of her heart monitor increased for a moment, and Rick continued, emboldened by that slight sign that she seemed to be listening.

"I'm sorry, Kate," he began hoarsely. "I'm sorry that I didn't see the sniper before he shot you. After all the cases we've worked, you would think I would have better reflexes."

Giving a weak chuckle, Rick ignored the tears that were stinging at his eyes and focused again on Kate, willing her to respond. Although his voice was no louder than the gentle thrum of machinery, it took on a new timbre, and new vigor.

"You have to come back, Kate. Not for me, not for your mom's case, not for your father. Those are all good reasons, Kate, all reasons that you should come back to us and fight some more. But the real reason that you have to come back, Kate?"

Rick found his lips twitching upwards in a smile. He had a feeling that platitudes and pleas would not appeal to Kate, but that the obnoxiousness that he had exhibited in the beginning of their partnership, the way he would needle her and still did, that always got a delightful rise out of her—perhaps that could convince her that she was still needed.

Leaning closer, Rick breathed his reasoning against her ear. "You have to come back for Nikki Heat, Kate."

Rick found his lips stretching in a tight smile, remembering Kate's disgust at the incarnation of Nikki Heat, the idea that he could use her as his inspiration, that she would have suffer through her days being followed around by a writer.

"I killed Derek Storm because I was tired of him, and I felt that he had no more stories left to tell," Rick confessed, wrapping his fingers around Kate's, taking solace in the fact that her pulse continue to beat against his fingertips, even if she gave no sign of comprehending his words.

"When I found Nikki Heat, and you, I knew that I had plenty of stories to find. Nikki was feisty and strong, and as her stories grew, the more I turned to you. Even as you became interesting to me than Nikki, Nikki Heat was still a strong character, with a voice and plenty of adventures left."

Rick reached out and brushed a stray hair from Kate's forehead, his voice fading into a whisper. "You have to come back, Kate. If you go, what happens to Nikki Heat? I can't have my character without her inspiration. It wouldn't be the same without you. We're partners, Kate, and you and I both know that Nikki Heat has too many unsolved cases left to just give up and fade away."

Rick waited for a breathless moment, wondering if his confession had any effect. When Kate remained motionless, Rick sat back with a sigh, his heart aching, his worries returning. He moved to draw his hand away, but a slight tug stopped him. He stared down at his fingers, eyes wide, an incredulous grin spreading across his face, a light returning that had been dimmed for the last two days.

For a single moment, Kate's fingers had tightened around his.

~Fin


End file.
